The Quack Act
by The Flying Breadstick
Summary: “I don't want your ducks! I hate your ducks! I spit on your ducks! I DAMN your ruddy ducks, be they rubber or no!” And so begins Jack's great campaign to rid the world of duck ponds... 'Sequel' to 'The Legacy of Pandora's Box.'
1. Lord Rochester's Ball

**Disclaimer:** Don't own Disney; therefore, I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean.

**AN:** I'm experiencing major writer's block with _How My Perfect Life Was Inverted_, so in the mean time I wrote this. Hope it doesn't disappoint. _The Quack Act_ has already been completed, so I can confidently assure you that this will be updated regularly. Anyway, this is a sort-of sequel to _The Legacy of Pandora's Box_; what if that story hadn't been a dreamed-up world, but was in fact an alternate universe that Jack and Pearl had somehow both tapped into? This is what their life would have been like…

**The Quack Act**

**Part I:** Lord Rochester's Ball

"Damn the ducks!" the man known as Lord Livingstone shouted, splashing the quacking birds away whilst his daughter squeaked and immediately drew away from the pond, taking her beau with her. "Damn _all_ the ducks!"

And to think, when Lady Livingstone was preening herself earlier that evening, she had thought that Rochester's ball was going to be exceptionally dull. Flicking open her lace-trimmed fan, she grinned in amusement under the pretence of cooling herself on the sultry summer's night, and quietly called to the dark-haired girl looking distrustfully at her soaked father and clinging tightly to the teenaged boy whose handsome presence had caused all the trouble. Isabelle released Beaufort's manicured hand and scurried over to hide behind her mother, clinging tightly to the woman's corseted waist as she peered fearfully over her shoulder.

"You should know better than to sneak off with Paul, Pearl," the mother chastised with a gentle tap of her fan.

"I didn't think Papa will notice," Pearl ruefully admitted as they both watched Paul, younger son of the Duke of Beaufort, stand rooted to the spot as a now thoroughly soaked Nathaniel Livingstone clumsily clambered out of the pond, advanced threateningly towards the young aristocrat whilst groping for his sword, realise his dear wife had confiscated the weapon in case such an embarrassing scenario should occur, and yelled something no man should ever say about his wife, even in private. "I saw that he was drinking, and—"

"You should know by now _not_ to go sneaking around with a boy when your father's been drinking," the lady reprimanded. "What did I tell you the last time Jack caught you alone and unchaperoned with Paul?"

Isabelle lowered her coiffed head in shame. "I was to tell you that I wanted privacy," she admitted sullenly, "and then you would distract Papa so that—"

The two women were unfortunately interrupted as Paul came hurtling towards them, screaming as the man previously known as Jack Sparrow came barrelling close behind, brandishing a stick. Sierra rolled her eyes, allowed Paul to pass, and deliberately stepped into Jack's way, her hands reaching out to pry the stick from Jack's fingers. "Darling," she said sweetly, throwing the stick to the side and reaching up to grab her husband's arms firmly, "aren't you overreacting just a tad?"

The man ceased his drunken struggling, looked blearily down at the woman in something akin to astonishment, and asked, "Haven't we had this conversation before?"

"_Yes_," Sierra replied, "at least five times."

Jack nodded his dark head which, though free of its various dreadlocks and trinkets, had not sunk so deeply into the webs of fashion to allow itself to be covered by a powdered wig, and slurred, "Just asking," before pushing his wife aside the better to strangle Paul Beaufort.

"J—Nate!" Lady Livingstone cried as he waved a drunken fist in Paul's general direction. The man paused at hearing the distress in his spouse's voice, and frowned, wondering what could have occurred to put his wife into such a state of agitation. Suddenly, it dawned on him, and he sighed in exasperation, took a few steps to the left, bent over, and retrieved his stick.

"There!" he snapped at her. "Happy now? I got me a stick."

Sierra closed her eyes, massaging her temples in exasperation. "That wasn't _quite_ what I meant…" she informed him, reaching out to grab his wet coat to prevent him from following the rather fast boy.

"But he's getting away…" Jack whined, for some reason unable to escape from his wife's weaker grip. Pouting, he let the stick fall to the grass and turned to look forlornly at Sierra's relieved face.

"You can't honestly expect to get away with the assault of the Duke of Beaufort's son, can you?"

Jack rolled his drunken eyes at his wife's dimness. "'Twas never my intention to get away with assault of the Duke of Beaufort's son," he slowly explained to her, lest she become more confused. "I originally planned to get away with the _murder_ of the Duke of Beaufort's son. There is a slight but remarkably significant difference between the two charges."

Sierra's only response was to hit him over the head with her closed fan.

"How much have you had to drink?" she asked him as he shook his head, sending tendrils of wet hair flying and splashing his wife's face. "No matter; here," and she pulled a handkerchief from her emerald sleeve, gently wiping his sulking face. "Better?" she asked the way a mother might ask a child who had grazed his knee.

Jack shook his head in the negative. "No," he snapped, his temper flaring again as he pushed the handkerchief away. "Never! Not until I wring young Beaufort's neck!"

"Jack!" the wife pleaded again, grabbing his shoulders and all but forcing herself onto him.

Personally, Jack was still surprised that the woman could still be so forward after all these years. "Not now," he growled. "Have you no shame, woman?"

Sierra's brow furrowed at this. "What are you talking about?" she asked, tightening her grip and wrinkling her nose as she realised that the pond water Jack was covered in was wreaking havoc on the brocade of her dress. "Oh, look at you—that waistcoat is ruined."

"Aye?" Jack said, absently flicking a large clump of duckweed off of his coat. "And whose fault is that, eh? Bloody Beaufort!" And he tried once more to unsuccessfully escape from the lady's grasp.

"Beaufort is no longer _here_, Jack!" Sierra told him desperately. "If you still plan on murdering Paul, I think it fair to warn you that he's returned to the ballroom, which, incidentally enough, is full to the brim with aristocratic _witnesses_."

Jack just looked blearily down, trying to focus on one of the seven blurred faces swimming before him. "Why would that matter?" he asked her. "So what if they're aristocratic—"

"I somehow think you've missed the point of that sentence, Jack," Sierra said once more. Turning to the teenaged girl whose decidedly amorous nature had caused such incidents as this to occur more than once, she silently asked with a raised eyebrow for the daughter to say something to calm the drunken father.

Isabelle, usually as eloquent as her father, just gaped at the two of them. And then:

"Um, Papa? There's a duck on your head."

Sierra winced at this, whilst Jack frowned before looking up to see a bird looking down.

"_Quack!_" squawked the bird.

Jack's face darkened. "_What_ did you just call me?"

"_Quack!_" the slightly suicidal bird said again. "_Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack!_"

"You bastard!" Jack snapped at the duck, reaching up to wring the duck's neck whilst Sierra silently wondered why she never saw the creature before Pearl's proclamation. "Teach you to insult me so publicly in front of my family, I will! Where's me stick?" And he looked about himself in what seemed to be dazed confusion, his unfocused eyes unable to find the much-coveted strip of wood, and looking ready to tear as an unfortunate consequence. Looking down at his expensive buckled shoes in despair, those same eyes lit up with joy as he finally located his beloved twig, which in his desperate and inebriated state he had forgotten had been deposited at his feet all along. Sierra, suddenly sensing Jack's not entirely bright idea, literally put her foot down, and proceeded to coax the duck away from her husband whilst simultaneously informing Jack that the duck was decidedly _not_ insulting him.

Jack, for his own part, found this statement rather difficult to digest.

"Of course it was bloody insulting me!" Jack bellowed, causing his daughter to flinch and slowly back away from the embarrassing couple. "Didn't you hear it? It called me a quack!"

Sierra, having kept a rather tight lid on her temper for most of the incident, finally cracked. "It's a _duck_!" she snapped at her husband as the bird in question began to flap its wings. "What else can it call you?"

"_Aha!_" Jack exclaimed in triumph. "So whilst you may still be refuting the fact that it called me a quack, you _do_ in fact admit that it was calling me _something_."

"Wha—_No!_" Sierra denied as the duck finally took flight with a final quack, which, in Jack's current condition, was really a rather stupid thing to do. "All I'm saying is that it's—Jack? What are you doing?" she asked as he staggered somewhat out of her reach in the general direction of the flying duck.

"_Jack!_" she shrieked in frustration as she watched the man she thought she loved (but was beginning to have considerable doubts on that particular analysis) fumble for something in his coat's inner pocket.

"Oh God…" she groaned in vexation as he gleefully waved his pistol—one of the few remaining relics from his glory days as a pirate of the Spanish Main—in the air the way that only a drunkard could.

"Earlier, when I was chasing Beaufort," Jack giggled drunkenly, evidently rather pleased with himself, "I'd actually forgotten I'd had this; for I assure you, fair wife of mine—God, isn't that the most depressing three words to have ever been brought together in the history of the English language?—that had I remembered I had this, I would not, not, _not_—" he added one final time to escape the horrific complications that came of inadvertent double negatives, "have gone to all the trouble of losing a stick."

"Jack?" Sierra said evenly as he lovingly examined the pocket-sized weapon, "I want a divorce."

Jack either pretended not to notice or, less likely, _really_ didn't notice Sierra's last comment; still grinning idiotically to himself, he clumsily fumbled with the hammer of the firearm, began humming a jolly sea shanty, and had just raised his head the better to spot the bird he intended to make his prey, when he caught the look on his wife's face, which, for some reason, didn't seem to share his joy at finding his trusty pistol so close at hand.

"Wha'?" he asked defensively as he took in her narrowed eyes and crossed arms.

"You told me," Sierra began rather slowly, more to ensure that he followed her words carefully than to patronise him, "that you left that locked in your desk. In your study. You know, _at home_."

Jack attempted to raise his eyebrow, and was glad to discover that he had succeeded in this most difficult of endeavours. "My dear wife," he drawled lazily, running his thumb over the inlaid silver in the same manner he ran his hands over his wife's body and, once upon a time, the wheel of his _Black Pearl_, "over the years, I have told you a good number of many things. Frankly, I'm beginning to doubt my initial assessment of your intelligence if you _believed_ half of them."

"For God's sake," Sierra muttered, moving forwards in an attempt to disarm him. Jack brought the pistol close to his chest and turned away, effectively shielding it from the woman attempting to part the two of them and therefore leave honour unsatisfied. "_Jack!_ Don't you dare move another inch, Pearl!" she added sharply to the teenager that had long ago begun her bid for freedom. "This is mostly your fault, and your pouting isn't going to help you get away so lightly this time!"

_She really does sound like my mother,_ Isabelle thought to herself as she reluctantly shuffled back. _How very annoying._

Sierra grabbed the girl's arm firmly and steered her towards Jack, who was teetering dangerously on the edge of the duck pond with the pistol hanging limply in his grasp even as he tried to aim at the duck. "I want you stay here," she told the daughter with a slight shove, "and ensure that your father doesn't… do anything that may cause one or all of us grief later on."

"Like shoot one of Rochester's prized ducks," Isabelle filled in, and Sierra nodded.

"Try to calm him, won't you?" she half-pleaded, half-commanded the girl. "I'll make our excuses to Lady Rochester, make amends with the Beauforts, and try to salvage _this_ situation."

"It was all Papa's fault," Pearl scowled, looking distrustfully at the dark-haired man yelling for the duck to "come out and fight like a man."

"It's _both_ your faults," Sierra corrected. "Honestly, sometimes I feel as though I'm the only member of this family with something akin to morals, which is a very depressing thought."

"Yes, considering how we all met in a Tortugan brothel," Pearl empathised. Sierra smiled at the matter-of-fact tone, gave Pearl's hand an encouraging squeeze, flicked open her fan, hurried up the garden path, climbed the wide stone stairs, and waltzed into the ballroom, the doors of which were flung wide open, and from where the faintest notes of music could be heard.

Pearl, in stark and deliberate contrast, simply approached her father with great caution.

"Papa?" she whispered fearfully. The voice was quiet, but Jack was drunk; he jumped at the unexpected address, dropped his pistol, and fell once more into the duck pond with a few choice oaths.

"Papa?" she squeaked worriedly as he sat up, causing the ducks to squawk once more, and shook his head free of water.

"Damn you!" he shouted, shaking a fistful of pondweed at the birds fluttering about him in a panicked frenzy. "Damn you all to the depths of hell! And you sir," he added on spotting a familiar feather. "I demand an apology."

"_Quack!_" said the bird once more, and Pearl was certain that the creature had a death wish. "_Quack! Quack! Quack! Qua—_"

A sudden bang followed by the cracking of clay (although it was the bang that was most noticeable) caused Pearl to squeak and jump away; her dear Papa had finally pulled the trigger, and was now looking frantically for the feathered body. Unfortunately for Jack, his inebriated state, combined with the dimness of night, meant that he had accidentally shot a flowerpot, therefore leaving all of the ducks relatively unharmed, if slightly panicked. The ducks had now taken to flapping about the drenched Livingstone sitting in the pond with fire in his eyes as he crossed his arms and scowled. And of course, they were all quacking quite excitedly now.

"Papa?" Isabelle tried again, edging as close to the pond as she dared. Jack drunkenly noted his daughter's voice, and turned to glance disdainfully at her with narrowed eyes.

"Can you shoot that duck for me?" he politely requested.

"You never taught me how to handle a pistol, Papa," Pearl reminded, gesturing that he climb out and come to her. Jack nodded at the truth of this, proceeded to make several attempts at standing, and simply fell back down into the pond each and every time with a splash louder than the last whilst Isabelle looked on in a mixture of embarrassment, amusement, and filial concern.

"My lord," came a familiar voice, and Isabelle turned to see their coachman for the evening, the trusty and ever so reliable Beckham, discreetly making his way towards them with a flickering lantern and what looked like a blanket flung over his arm. Isabelle wasn't certain of what Beckham actually _was_ in their household; officially speaking, he was their butler, but he was occasionally given other tasks not befitting a man of that station; like tonight for example, when Lady Livingstone, knowing full well what her husband and daughter could get up to, had tactfully asked him to relieve the actual coachman of his duties. He was also the man that Jack and Sierra nearly always turned to whenever a matter concerning their more personal affairs arose, yet both assured their daughter that he was simply a trustworthy 'drudge.' Personally, Isabelle suspected that there was more to Beckham than either were willing to let on, but for now she was simply grateful that he was here.

"Did Mother send you?" Pearl guessed.

Beckham respectfully inclined his head, which was dressed in a dark periwig (as was the fashion which Lord Livingstone absolutely refused to follow) and deferentially asked her if she might hold the lantern and folded square of cloth for a moment. Then, with apparently little concern for the welfare of his clothing, he plunged into the pond with far more grace than his master had, slipped one arm around Lord Livingstone's shoulders, and carefully helped the soaking drunk to stand. Pearl scurried over to the two men and, without another word, flung the blanket about her Papa's shoulders, using the corners to dry his face and hair, which had pulled free of its black ribbon and now hung about his face in a dark, dripping mess.

"My lady requests that we return to St James' Square post-haste," Beckham informed the couple as he escorted a shivering and gibbering Livingstone firmly away from the duck pond.

"Yes, that's understandable," Pearl accepted without question, trotting beside the two men.

"My lady also requests that I lecture the both of you on your disgraceful behaviour whilst we wait for her in the carriage," Beckham added.

"Sod off, Beckham," Jack snapped. These were the last words he uttered before passing out.

**TBC**


	2. A Romantic Interlude

**AN:** I've only got four reviews for this story so far, but that's OK as each reviewer has put this on their story alert, whivh I find really flattering, so thank you! Anyway, a reviewer has pointed out something which I should have put in the first chapter, which is how the characters are related to one another, so here goes: Sierra is Jack's wife, that much is obvious; Pearl is the nickname for Isabelle, who is Jack's daughter by a woman called Beth, although Sierra is happy to raise her as her own; and finally, Beckham is the all-knowing, stoic butler who is of little importance in this story but is actually a key member of the "Livingstone" household, so I thought it'll be best to mention him.

**The Quack Act**

**Part II:** A Romantic Interlude

When Jack eventually awoke the next morning, it was to the painfully familiar throbbing of a hangover. He groaned, turning in the bed, and found that he was greeted by what sounded like an amused chuckle. For a moment he was puzzled, wondering who it was that could have found his pain so amusing, but he soon felt familiar lips ghosting his own, and a finger reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

"Jesus…" he greeted, his hand finding his wife's waist and pulling her close. "What have I been drinking last night?"

"Copious amounts of pretentious French wine," Sierra explained, keeping her voice low so as not to cause him further pain. "Bit of champagne… Quite mild, really, compared to what you're used to." He felt her breath on his cheek as she placed a fleeting kiss on his features, and then he felt the warm air on his earlobe as she murmured, "Anything I can do to help?"

Jack breathed deeply then, and was peeved to discover he'd inadvertently inhaled his wife's hair. Sierra giggled again, a soft, girlish sound that was rarely heard from her, and he felt her move away. He hesitantly opened one eye, and was immediately relieved to find that Sierra had the good sense to prevent the maids from drawing the curtains, as was their wont. He was certain his eyes wouldn't have been able to handle the dazzling light of the morning sun.

She was lying beside him, as he'd suspected, dressed in a simple deep blue gown with a low, rounded décolletage and undecorated sleeves ending sharply just after the elbow. He found that he recognised that dress; it had been one that he'd given her, years ago, when he had still been a penniless pirate. It had been unfashionable then, more so now, and he was touched to discover that she hadn't thrown it away.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked suddenly at the small smile on his face.

"Have you been lying here all this time?"

Sierra shook her head, and pushed herself off of the mattress, her bare feet hitting the floor.

"You'll be going back to Westminster in a few days, won't you?" Sierra asked from some point beyond his feet. "And we're for Lord Hardwicke's proposed Clandestine Marriage Act, aren't we?"

Jack furrowed his brow at this. "Is that the same act that will ensure our Pearl won't be able to just up and marry any old bastard that catches her eye without telling us?"

"It's the act that completely destroys the validity of all common-law marriages, yes," she confirmed. He heard the rustling of paper, the gentle pattering of her feet, and saw her climbing back into the bed to nuzzle under the covers, a square of paper trapped between two slender fingers. "I've been going over your speech," she said as he pried the item from her. "A few words missed out here and there, some parts I couldn't understand because it was in Latin but trust are grammatically correct, but quite good."

"So why are you frowning?" he asked her.

"It doesn't sound like you at all; the words just seem so… so wooden, and controlled…" she explained. "What makes you such a fascinating and charming orator is the way you play on words, the way you twist things to suit your own needs. You're not doing that here, and considering how a high percentage of the Lords Temporal don't much care for the act, you're going to have to be at your most… _charismatic_."

Jack knew from the way that his wife had stressed this last word that charisma had nothing to do with what she had in mind. (Well, to a certain extent, he supposed it did.)

"Listen, just because a high number of my peers wear powdered wigs and pastel colours and have high voices _does not_ mean they're all sodomites," Jack explained patiently to her. "My charm, irresistible and seductive it undoubtedly is, will be wasted on them."

"Not even Harrogate?" his wife queried.

"_Certainly_ not Harrogate."

"Jack, Lord Harrogate's favourite coat is _fuchsia_," Sierra pointed out.

"Yes, but I'm certain that he enjoys the company of women regardless."

"He has matching accessories!"

"Blame his valet."

"And last night he was telling me your derriere was looking particularly tight," Sierra finished, to Jack's gaping horror. "So I think that if you give him a lingering look—maybe flash him that lopsided grin of yours—you'll get his support."

"I don't _want_ his support," Jack snapped irritably.

"You need his support—you know that Harrogate's a highly respected politician, despite his… inclinations. Get him on your side, and you'll get the vote of thirty other lords."

Jack was looking resentfully up at her. "Why can't _you_ flash him a lopsided grin?"

"Partly because he likes men, not women, partly because the two of us are rather good friends, and partly because when I grin lopsidedly, I vaguely resemble a deranged axe-murderer." And she gave him a look that suggested Jack immediately soothe her fabricated fears, for his own well-being.

"Well, I wouldn't call you a deranged axe-murderer," Jack rushed to reassure her. "Just faintly deranged."

"Jack!" Sierra chastised, hitting his shoulder playfully. Jack smiled at the childish behaviour, shuffled to the edge of the bed, and lit the oil lamp perched on the table before carefully unfolding the sheet Sierra had sparsely annotated. He only read the first five lines (to which his wife had made absolutely no adjustments, much to his pleasure) before stopping, frowning at the wall.

"What's wrong?" Sierra asked, sensing the sudden tension in the air. She watched in a sort of confused dread as Jack turned to look over his shoulder at her, an odd look on his face.

"Sweetheart…" he began slowly, "last night, at Rochester's… Did somebody call me a quack?"

Sierra raised a quizzical eyebrow at this before bursting into laughter.

"Who?" Lord Livingstone demanded, watching his wife fall back onto the pillows in mirth.

"Only the ducks…" Sierra wheezed out, clearly unable to control herself. Her sniggering immediately ceased at the look on her husband's face. "Jack?"

"I… came into contact with _ducks_?" he asked slowly.

"Yes…" she confirmed cautiously. "One of them even sat on your head. It was very amusing."

"Ducks?" Jack said once more.

"Yes, ducks."

For a moment, Jack seemed too stunned to speak; a rare occasion indeed, and Sierra found herself overcome with worry.

"Darling, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" Jack replied, a little too quickly. "I'm fine, sweetheart; why ever do you ask?"

Sierra kept her suspicions well under wraps as she shot him an encouraging smile. "I'm merely playing the role of a loving and dutiful wife, my love," she assured her husband as she moved closer and rested her hand on his smooth abdomen whilst her chin found a place on his shoulder. She felt him smile at her affectionate action, and then he turned back to his speech with the gentlest rustling of paper. Sierra settled for simply holding and nuzzling her lover (with the occasional fleeting kiss on his bare shoulder) for about a minute or so, making certain that he was completely comfortable. Then, when Jack least expected it, she raised her lips to his ear, and murmured softly, seductively:

"Quack."

Jack's reaction was unprecedented; the speech fell to the floor with the gentle grace of a falling feather; his entire body seemed to convulse with a shuddering far more violent than she had ever imagined was humanly possible; his right hand fell to his stomach to tightly grip her smaller fingers. Then, as suddenly as the wave of panic had appeared, so did it swiftly wash away; his entire body instantly relaxed, and he turned his head to glare at her.

"Very funny," he told her, not at all surprised at the impish mischief gracing her beautiful features.

"You're terrified of ducks," Sierra gloated. "It's so adorable."

"I am not in any way terrified of ducks," Jack sniffed, reaching down to pick up his speech and wincing at the exacerbating pain this movement caused. "You'd react in exactly the same way if the woman—or man, in your case—in whose loving embrace you lay said 'quack' instead of the sweet nothings that were expected."

"Admit it," Sierra persisted stubbornly, "you have a duck phobia. No wonder your reaction was so violent last night. Do you know that you got so riled up, you actually fell into the pond? I had to ask Beckham to fetch you out, and we had to strip and throw your unconscious body into a bath. You nearly drowned."

Jack was scowling, apparently having heard only the first half of this lecture. "The ducks were attacking me," he told her evenly. "It was purely self-defence."

Sierra resisted the urge to roll her eyes and leaned close once more, her lips gently brushing his. "Quack," she sighed, gently, before moving to his ear and repeating the short statement. She continued in this manner for quite some time, and was so frustratingly distracting that Jack, already testy thanks to his hangover, finally snapped.

"Excuse me," he said disdainfully, pushing her playfully wandering hands away and unsteadily wobbling to his feet, "but I've the sudden and overwhelming urge to retire to my study. I'll like to remind you that it has a strong and sturdy lock."

"But Jack!" Sierra cried out, sounding slightly desperate as she too leapt to her feet. "Please stay for a little longer, Jack. I promise I'll be good. Unless, of course," she added huskily, moving seductively closer, "you'd prefer I was otherwise…"

Her offer would have tempted any man; years ago, Jack would have found it nigh irresistible. However, the man had fast learnt that Sierra's libido, like a good hat, was constant and eternal; knowing that she'd be quite willing to sate his appetite later, he sweetly rejected her.

"We have to talk about this, you know," Sierra huffed, clearly peeved. "Throughout our relationship, I've always been the one to initiate… well, _anything_: a gentle kiss; an affectionate cuddle; a night of deviant passion… When will _you_ start anything? Frankly, I'm feeling undesirable, and if I feel undesirable, I'll very probably have an affair, because I'm extremely emotionally sensitive and ever so slightly needy."

"Yes, I know," Jack said, absently buttoning his breeches; after bathing him, both Beckham and his mistress had decided that there was really no point in dressing him again, since he'd probably end up naked anyway. "Fear not, my wanton wife, I'll be more than willing to bed you later, once I've finished with the tedious business of politics."

"But that's not the _point_, is it?" Sierra persisted, gripping his sleeve as he buttoned up the shirt. "Jack, I want you to just… Spontaneously take me whenever you feel like it. Like you used to," she sighed, clearly thinking of better days. "You used to make me feel like I was so beautiful that you just couldn't control yourself, and I miss that—Are you even listening to me?"

"Of course I am," Jack said, shrugging on his waistcoat and leaving it unbuttoned. "You're beautiful, you're irresistible, and you want nothing more than to be spontaneously taken. I'll bear that in mind."

"And you're not going to act on that?" she asked him in disbelief.

Nope," Jack said, not even sounding the least bit affected.

Sierra made that noise that only offended or infuriated females can make, and all but threw one of her bonnets at him. Jack deftly caught the hat, and smirked triumphantly at her as he casually threw it onto the mattress. "Now now, my darling, aren't you overreacting just a tad?"

Sierra scowled at having her words thrown back at her, and stubbornly crossed her arms over her bosom, turning away from the man in defiance.

"Quack," she said sullenly, clearly attempting to rile the man standing behind her. "You _are_ a quack; I agree with the ducks on that." She paused, waiting for his reaction, but Lord Livingstone remained impervious. "The ducks were right, you know; you're nothing more than a—a charlatan! Albeit, a _disgustingly_ charming charlatan, but a charlatan nonetheless, and—"

She squealed as Jack's arms came about her waist, pulling her close and lifting her a few inches off of the ground as he kissed her neck. "I love you too, sweetheart," he told her before carefully releasing her from his embrace.

"Quack," she insisted, not to be deterred by his charm. "I'm not going to be won over so easily; I refuse to forgive you, quack. Call me stubborn if you must. Oh, and also—quack!"

Jack grinned (although whether it was at his lascivious imaginings or his wife's insistent quacking is debatable) and whispered something into her ear that made his wife fight down a smile. "Well, perhaps that _might_ just do it…" she allowed.

"Patience, darling," he told her. "Let me just go and write up that speech, eh?"

"How long are you going to be?" she whined.

"Quite a while, I fear. Your sophisticated and stimulating conversation has given me an idea for an act of my own, and as such, I must now draft an entirely different speech."

"I did?" she asked, feeling delighted at such an idea. "What is it? The abolition of the African slave trade? Reduced punishment for the 'crime' of sodomy? Votes for women?"

"Something infinitely better than your three rather outrageous suggestions," Jack confided.

"Well, what?" she half-laughed as he continued to caress her.

"Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" he teased, twisting her dark curls around his finger. "Don't fret, madam, all will be revealed in due time." And he drew away from her, moving towards the door and closing it behind him with a gentle click, leaving his wife standing in the middle of the darkened bedroom with her arms wrapped about herself and a silly smile on her face.

Lady Livingstone shook her head and let her arms fall to her side, attempting to shake off the effect her husband had on her. Self-consciously clearing her throat, she smoothed down her dark dress and marched purposefully to the window, drawing back the curtains and looking down into the bustling square of St James'. Nothing outside of the window was out of the ordinary; she saw maids scurrying about as they hurried to complete their various errands; she saw men and women of leisure being pulled through the square in their fine carriages, their footmen looking rather impressive in their uniform liveries, as was their wont; she even saw the shabbily-dressed country folk escorting their animals through the city, as they did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that…

Sierra smiled as she watched a boy chasing after a rebellious sheep that had broken away from the small flock his father shepherded, dodging pass the various coaches and carriages and the occasional cartload of animals…

Her blue eyes fell upon one cart in particular, carrying what looked to be a flock of squawking geese, and her smile faded, which wasn't surprising; after all, was the noble goose not, in some ways, indistinguishable from the common duck?

"Oh God…" she said, burying her face in her hands in something that was a cross between embarrassment and exasperation. And then:

"**_Jack!_**"

**TBC**


	3. Of Bread and Pondwater

**AN:** This is by far the best chapter of this story; it is also, by strange coincedence, the cutest…

**The Quack Act**

**Part III:** Of Bread and Pondwater

"So…?" Lord Livingstone anxiously pressed his wife later that evening, when he had eventually emerged from his study. "What do you think?"

Lady Livingstone was silent for a moment.

"You spent all day writing this?" she eventually asked, her voice even whilst she held up the incriminating new speech.

"About that amount, yes."

"Dear God…" Lady Livingstone cursed, dropping the sheet onto the desk with an expression of palpable disgust.

"You don't like it?" Jack fretted. It might seem odd that the man would place so much stock by his wife's opinions, more so in an age where women were considered to be nothing more than children trapped in an adult's body; but those who believed such things clearly hadn't encountered the same amount of strong women that Jack had. (Oh, where to begin? His mother, one of the most shamelessly wanton women to have ever walked the earth? Miss Elizabeth Swann of Port Royal, the confusingly flirtatious true love of one William Turner? Anamaria, the sailor who made him regret ever laying a finger on her bloody boat? His own daughter, who was too many things to list?) Besides, Sierra was surprisingly talented when it came to politics and all matter concerning the English language, he'd discovered, and he was obliged to seek her counsel on more than one occasion, considering how he didn't much care for governing fair Britannia.

It was quite odd and somewhat hypocritical, actually; when Jack had first set out on the account, he'd consoled what little morals he had (for in his youth, Jack _did_ possess something vaguely resembling morals) with the sad but honest truth that the British government was corrupt and unethical and had _forced_ him, amidst countless others, into a life of desperate lawlessness; and in those days, Jack had sworn to himself that if he ever had the chance to change the way things were, then he will. However, now that Jack was given the opportunity to right the British world of its numerous and inconsistent wrongs, he found that he honestly couldn't be stuffed; hence, he allowed his wife to take over, as she found the life of a leisured aristocrat quite boring and stifling and was eager to put her fully capable mind to use, even if it was for something as tedious and unfulfilling as running the country.

"I do hope you'll pardon my language, sweetheart," Sierra was saying, "It's absolute bollocks."

Jack started at her harsh voice and unusually crude words, looking towards her and feeling vaguely hurt.

"Well, rewrite it, then!" he commanded, gesturing at the speech. Sierra crossed her arms and stubbornly shook her head.

"No," she said, quite simply.

Jack merely gaped at her. "_No?_" he parroted.

"No."

Lord Livingstone decided to try another approach.

"And how am I going to present myself in Parliament if I have a speech that's 'absolute bollocks?'" he challenged her defiantly. "What's wrong with it, anyway?"

"There's nothing wrong with your speech, Jack," Sierra rushed to reassure him. "Your speech is fine—as a matter of fact, it's very moving. Almost inspiring, and certainly very persuasive," she added with a gentle smile that, coupled with her words and true opinion of the entire matter, served to successfully demonstrate her love for her husband in a very sweet and mildly clichéd manner.

"So where did it all go bollocks, then?" Jack asked, apparently oblivious to his wife's subtle and non-verbal declaration of undying love and eternal affection. (_What a bastard,_ Sierra couldn't help but think, and not for the first time wondered why she loved him so.)

"Everywhere. Every_thing_—it's the subject matter of the speech that I think is absolute bollocks, not the speech itself."

Jack frowned at this. "And what's wrong with the subject matter?" he asked in all honest innocence (a rare state for him to find himself in).

Sierra raised her hand to her temples with a sigh that communicated volumes about how exasperating she found her life to any and all persons willing to listen; a depressingly short list of the human race which, unfortunately for Sierra, did not include her husband.

"_Jack_," she said again, "do you honestly think you'll be able to get away with this proposal? Do you honestly think that the other peers will accept and grant _this_? And of course, you'll have to take the House of Commons into account…"

Jack waved this last comment away. "No I don't," he scoffed. "The House of Lords have far more power and influence than the House of Commons; even if the Commons don't go for it, it would hardly matter if I've the Lords behind me."

"Jack," Sierra tried again, in all seriousness, "you're proposing a ban on duck ponds. No man in his right mind will ever even _consider_ it."

"And why not, might I ask? It's a legitimate and perfectly reasonable request," Jack sniffed.

"No it's not, it's—Oh Jack, just read it through!" and she flung the speech towards him. "It's absolutely ridiculous—and the suggested methods and punishments are nothing short of preposterous!"

"They are _not_!" Jack protested indignantly.

"Oh, so your suggestion that 'Duck Smugglers' should be burnt at the stake is not at all ludicrous?" she challenged.

"That was the first draft," Jack corrected, clinging tightly to his duck pond speech. "In the second draft, I amended it to transportation for a minimum of five years."

"_Oh!_" Sierra snapped, throwing up her hands in frustration. "Honestly, sometimes I don't know why—"

"Whatever the rest of that question is, let me assure you now that the answer is the sweet, simple, 'because you love me.'"

Sierra had the urge to call him a number of unpleasant and rather uncivilised things; however, knowing that he would remain mostly unaffected by such uncouth nouns, she merely settled for crossing her arms and yelling "Quack!" just because she wished to irk him. Jack's face paled considerably at this, but otherwise he showed no signs of being affected.

"Why are you doing this? Because of what happened at Rochester's? If that's the case, then let me tell you, Jack, that no one but me, you, Pearl, Beckham and Paul know about that unfortunate incident, and I can assure you that it'll remain that way."

"It's partly to do with that night at Rochester's…" Jack confessed. "That was the spark that set this entire affair alight, if that makes any sense at all."

"A little. Oh Jack, why? How could one night have affected your perspective so greatly?"

"It wasn't _just_ one night," Jack confided, turning away from her and strolling to look out of the darkened window. "Darling, I've a long and unpleasant history with ducks; a war which has lasted a lifetime, and now, at long last, I've the weapons, the _stratagems_, with which to triumph. Can you, in all good conscience, and with your love for me as great and unconditional as you claim, even _consider_ snatching my victory away when it's so close at hand?"

"My God," Sierra said, and Jack was surprised to hear her sounding breathless. Frowning, he turned back to see that she had flicked open a fan and was now waving it most violently before her spectacularly heaving bosom (something which Jack didn't find at all mesmerising, honest). "I'm sorry," she said in that same breathy voice. "It's just that you're so eloquent… And your voice when it's seething with hatred is just so… I'm sorry," she said again, and he could see, even in the dim candlelight, that she was blushing. Smirking, he watched from afar as her rapidly swelling chest slowed, and she lowered her fan, self-consciously reaching up to adjust her hair and clearing her throat embarrassedly.

"Quack," she said playfully. Her obsession with the word was rather endearing. "So… ducks, eh? Surely you don't hate _all_ ducks?" she persisted.

"I do," Jack informed her gravely. "I despise all ducks with a burning hatred rivalled only by my uncontrollable passion for you."

Sierra coughed suddenly, and he could have sworn that he heard her mutter "What passion?", two suspiciously close incidents that brought a frown to his face. Audibly, she said, somewhat meekly, "Even rubber ducks?"

_Rubber?_ Jack frowned in confusion before shaking the odd word away. In all of their time spent together, he had noticed how she would occasionally say an odd word or phrase he'd never heard, but had never thought much of it. These little inconsistencies of hers had faded over the years, but they had been known to crop up every now and again.

"I think this duck phobia—loathing—enmity—_thing_—is very unhealthy, you know," Sierra commented thoughtfully, and Jack scowled at her. "I think that you need some counselling so that you might reconcile with the ducks. Do you think that if we bought a duckling as a pet, you'll grow to love it?"

Jack's temper was very thin by this point; who was this woman, to tell him what he did and didn't feel towards ducks? She was his wife, his legal property—she should really be supporting him, pledging her undying allegiance to his cause, not contradicting him.

"I don't _want_ your ducks!" he snapped childishly at her. "I _hate_ your ducks! I _spit_ on your ducks! I _damn_ your ruddy ducks, be they rubber or no!"

Sierra flinched at her husband's uncharacteristic truculence, and Jack immediately felt a pang of regret shoot through him. But then her surprise passed, and she merely looked exasperated once more.

"Jack…" his wife groaned, "If you decide _not_ to support Lord Hardwicke in Parliament come Thursday and instead go ahead and propose this duck pond ban, then that's completely up to you. But can you please tell me one thing?"

Jack raised an eyebrow as a way of silently asking her to continue.

"Why are you so scared of ducks?"

Jack's jaw clenched at this, and he turned away; the question she had asked was rather personal, and one which he had no desire to answer. And yet… And yet, a part of him _did_ wish to tell her, to share the deeply buried pain he'd been carrying within himself for nearly four decades, and so he told her.

When Jack had been a young lad, you see, he had had unlimited access to a duck pond. Ever since he was a tiny babe, he would twist in his mother's arms, his chubby little fingers reaching out playfully towards the winged creatures gliding so elegantly on the water, leaving hypnotic ripples in their wake. Oh, how he longed to play with them; to splash about in the pond, to swiftly dip his head as he picked up the floating pieces of bread flung to him, to preen his own feathers! For you see, at one point in time, Jack Sparrow's greatest aspiration in life was to be a duck. (This would then mutate into a desire to become one with the playful sparrow, which would then combine with the obsessive compulsion to seek fortune, fame, and adventure on the high seas, but that's slightly irrelevant to this tale.)

One fine summer's day, his mother, sweet and doting creature that she was, had reached down to clasp her son's little hand, and told him that today was the day when he would at last be allowed to feed the ducks; and with these words, she had, it seemed to young Jack, magically conjured a large stump of stale and unappetising (to humans) bread from what appeared to be thin air. Jack's youthful round face had lit up at such a prospect, and he had gladly accepted the bread, skipping out of their home (for the young Jack did skip) and thinking all the way to the duck pond about what a wonderful and loving mother he had. (In truth, his mother had merely wanted Jack to stay away from the house for a long enough time so that she might indulge in a most indecent affair with a well-endowed stable boy on the dining-room table, but that is also slightly irrelevant to this tale.)

Jack had been so happy that day, and had you seen him, then you would agree that he had made a very pretty and most adorable picture. This was a time before the rum, women, murders, and general lawless depravity associated with piracy had left its mark on Jack Sparrow; this was a time when Jack Sparrow was barely six-years-old, when his smile had been free of all arrogance, when his sparkling innocence and sweet sincerity shone brightly through his large brown eyes, and he'd not a care in the world, and noticeably far fewer taxes and social obligations than he did now.

(Actually, it's probably a very good thing that you _can't_ picture a youthful Jack Sparrow skipping on his merry way to feed the ducks, for if you could, you would be so greatly overcome by his utter adorability, that you would squeal, and pick him up, and cling to him in a crushing embrace, and then he would choke to death, and we would never have _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, the legendary pirate of the Caribbean, and you would not be at all interested in this flashback because there would be no childhood behind the legend, for there would be no legend, and therefore no interest in the childhood of the legend, and… Sorry, I seem to have gotten slightly carried away here.)

And so, there we have it; a youthful Jack Sparrow innocently anticipating feeding the ducks, whom, if you remember, he idolised with a rather unhealthy and faintly disturbing passion. The young Jack had stood by the pond, waiting patiently for all the birds to notice his petit presence; and sure enough, one by one, the birds became aware of the bread tucked under the little boy's arm, and paddled over respectively. Jack had grinned at this, and had ripped off a rather large clump of bread, watching with delight as the hungry birds all dived for the white clump until it had disappeared. Pleased with himself, he had thrown another piece, and another, and another, until very soon, all the birds were in a feeding frenzy, and had taken to flapping their wings and quacking to one another in excitement.

Then Jack had noticed how, near the back of the gluttonous flock, there lingered a small duck excluded by all the other birds, watching forlornly as its companions gouged themselves on this most charitable feeding ritual. Overcome with pity, he had thrown a piece of bread towards this pathetic creature, only to watch in dismay as another duck reached up and caught it expertly in its beak. So, he'd stepped a little closer to the pond, and cautiously attempted a further throw. Once again, a bird closer to the boy had caught it; scowling at the unfairness of it all, Jack had edged closer still, and closer, and closer…

And before he knew it, Jack had fallen into the duck pond with an undignified and terrified yelp. At first, the birds had panicked, and had all flapped away, unnerved by his thrashing and screaming; the pond was not what would be considered as deep, but it was deep enough for the young Jack Sparrow to fear for his life and drop his bread. The starving birds had seen this, and had immediately abandoned all their fears for the small human creature in their pond in favour of his loaf, and had suddenly gathered around the slowly drowning Jack, occasionally pecking the child by accident. This obviously didn't help calm young Jack Sparrow in the slightest, and his fear merely escalated.

Luckily for Jack, his sweet mother, having concluded her lewd business with the well-endowed stable boy to both of the participants' satisfaction, had chosen to follow her son and watch him feed his ducks; on seeing her cherub splashing most inelegantly in the duck pond, she had picked up her skirts and flew towards Jack as fast as her legs could carry her, had plunged into the pond, waving the ducks away, wrapped her arms about her little boy's waist, pulled him tightly towards her, and never once worried about what would become of her lovely gown as she climbed back onto land and lovingly (not to mention somewhat guiltily) comforted her sobbing child. And that was how Jack's lifelong phobia of ducks came into being.

"…And to this day," Jack was telling his wife embarrassedly, "I have made a point of avoiding all contact with ducks unless absolutely necessary. Do you know that throughout my entire life, I've never once even _eaten_ duck? That's how deeply my scars run, Sierra."

Sierra was silent for a moment, marvelling at the entire story related to her. And then, without any prior warning, she flung her arms about his neck and buried her face into his shoulder.

"My God," she squealed as he awkwardly returned the embrace. "Are you actually capable of _not_ being utterly and undeniably adorable?"

**TBC**


	4. The House of Lords

**AN:** There's only one chapter left and then _The Quack Act_ is all over; what a depressing thought. I also apologise in advance for this chapter's anticlimax; I'm warning you now so that you won't be as disappointed…

**The Quack Act**

**Part IV:** The House of Lords

Sierra had been rather affectionate in wishing him farewell on Thursday, just as he was setting off to take his seat in the House of Lords. Actually, Jack felt as though she didn't want to ever let him go, and on more than one occasion, he found that she was attempting to wheedle him into taking his original speech and abandoning his proposed duck pond ban.

"If you support Hardwicke today," she said, "instead of attempting to halt all proceedings for your own little act, then perhaps, when you eventually present this duck pond ban, you'll have quite a few of the lords' support, and it'll be passed with relatively little protest or amendments."

"If I support Hardwicke today," Jack explained as she busied herself with nuzzling his neck, "and later propose the duck pond ban, and have it approved, then I would be remembered by posterity as nothing more than Lord Hardwicke's lackey, and I flatly refuse such a fate."

"So you'd rather go down in history of your own accord, even if it means becoming known as the man who had proposed the Quack Act?" Sierra asked doubtfully, and Jack nodded slightly.

"Yes, I desire to go down in history, as you so eloquently put it, on my own terms. I want to be remembered for _long_ after I've passed away, my love: I yearn for books and poetry to be written about me, and ballads sung in celebration of my life; and then, centuries from now, I desire for the more exciting and supernatural episodes of my time on this earth to be played out with great acclaim to an international audience by an expatriate actor whose surname is the German for 'idiot.'"

"My God," Sierra sighed, pulling away to look at him. "If only you plan your life with half as much detail as you've planned out your afterlife…" she trailed off wistfully. Then she frowned suddenly, and looked up at him. "'Depp?'" she asked. "You want the supernatural and exciting episodes of your life to be played out by an actor whose surname is 'Depp?'"

Jack also frowned. "'Depp' is the German for 'idiot?'" he asked, and she nodded. "I thought that idiot was 'Dummkopf.'"

"No, that means 'fool.' But I can see where you got confused."

"Oh well, never mind that," Jack brushed off, annoyed that her German (which the more sycophantic members of the English aristocracy had attempted to learn in order to please their Hanoverian sovereign) far outstripped his own. "I must now take my reluctant leave of you."

Sierra smiled softly up at him. "Good luck," she said in all sincerity as he gently untangled himself from her limbs and rose from the comfortable settee that graced their parlour. "Oh, and Jack?" she added as he opened the door. Lord Livingstone paused, and turned to see his wife straightening her clothing in an attempt to look respectable.

Her smile was positively saccharine. "Quack," was all she said.

"Oh shut up," Jack castigated, and closed the door.

* * *

The seat of the House of Lords was a medieval building located in Westminster, and as such steeped in a wide and colourful history. Many great and noble men had taken their places in this building, and many fine, unsavoury, and occasionally unnecessary laws had been passed as a result. Looking at the Houses of Parliament, at its looming, impenetrable façade and its tall, sickening spires, one couldn't help but feel that the men who so regularly frequented these elegant fortresses must be something like the buildings, especially if the men were peers of the realm: eternal, but not ancient, wise, formidable, strong and unyielding creatures whose sole care was the welfare of their fair nation.

The reality, of course (as these things tended to be) was much different: when Lord Livingstone entered the House of Lords, taken his seat, and looked disdainfully around at his equals, his eyes were met by scores upon scores of what we shall politely term as 'fops.' And dozens of them! So many powder-wigged, pastel-clad, snuffbox-sniffing _fops_. Looking around at the arrayed aristocrats lounging on the benches, exchanging saucy anecdotes and the occasional wig-maintenance tip ("_Do not_, under any circumstances, drop your wig into a large jar of honey whilst you're visiting commoners in the country," said one man seated behind Jack. "Not only does it look ridiculous and feel disgusting, but you'll attract several rather unpleasant insects."), it was easy to see why so many foreigners had, on visiting the grand city of London, immediately assumed that a large percentage of the male population were sodomites. This wasn't necessarily true of course, although Jack did accept that England's fair capital probably was a little more open and accepting of her numerous molly-houses than other cities were.

"Livingstone!" a vaguely familiar voice called. Jack stiffened and attempted to fade into the white-wigged rabble; which, considering his stubborn insistence to leave his natural hair bare and unadorned, and his great love of slightly less effeminate cuts and colours, was quite a difficult feat to achieve; so difficult, in fact, that Lord Livingstone failed entirely, and had to wait sulkily for Baron Harrogate to clamber his way towards Lord Nathaniel Livingstone, the Viscount Cranborne and son and heir of the Earl of Salisbury. "Livingstone, my good fellow! I've been looking _everywhere_ for you." And with this, he unceremoniously kicked the Duke of Lancashire off of the bench and took the aristocrat's place, rubbing his hands together and grinning in what he believed was a flirtatious manner. "Why if I didn't know better, I could have _sworn_ that you were attempting to avoid me!"

Jack's easy smile was nothing short of forced. "Oh, I would never do _that_, Harrogate," he said, bearing in mind that this gentleman was one of his wife's closest friends, and very probably one of the very few that the woman held in high regard. This realisation did nothing to keep Jack from slapping Harrogate's wandering hand away from his backside.

"Ah," Harrogate had huffed in disappointment, sullenly cradling the abused fingers in his lap. "So you _still_ like women, then?"

"_Yes_," Jack told the sodomite for what he could have sworn was the one thousand, five hundred and eighty-ninth time. (This number wasn't actually that far off from the actual total; Baron Harrogate continually asked this question in the hope that, out of sheer irritation for the baron's stubborn persistence, Lord Livingstone would finally crack and admit that actually, he _did_ prefer men, and then nothing would have stopped the two of then from having a steamy and torrid love affair, with Livingstone's wife occasionally thrown in as she was very pretty and had already told Lord Harrogate that she liked the general idea.)

"Pity," Baron Harrogate replied for the sixty-three thousand, two hundred and seventy-second time (he asked a lot of gentlemen this particular question). "And how is the lovely Lady Livingstone? I trust you find her as desirable and satisfactory and insatiable as ever?"

"Yes," Jack said absently. "Very much so." He turned to see Lord Harrogate watching him intently with infatuated eyes, and, only slightly disturbed, added, "Particularly the last part; I swear, she just becomes more and more persistent with age."

"But she's still quite young," Harrogate pointed out. "Still in her prime. Quite like I myself am," the baron added, and rather conspicuously leaned his head on Lord Livingstone's dark shoulder, much to several onlookers' amusement.

"Hmm," Jack agreed, attempting to push the perfumed politician off, and sighed when he felt Harrogate's hand slip deftly into his coat and clutch tightly at his waistcoat. "Yes, alright Ben, you can just—Christ! Ah… Do you think you can…" (he paused to swallow) "…get your hand off of _that_?"

"Why?" Lord Harrogate asked, apparently not realising the utter impropriety at groping another gentleman in the swarming House of Lords. "Do you not like that?"

Jack didn't dignify this query with a response, and chose instead to throw Baron Harrogate into the Marquess of Islington's lap, self-consciously straightening his clothing and checking to see that his beloved speech was safely tucked inside his pocket. The baron pouted at this, but, on noticing the marquess' finely chiselled features, immediately broke out into a wide smile, and forgot about the handsome Lord Livingstone altogether.

Jack sat silently as the opening speech washed over him, impatiently tapping his fingers on his knee and wondering if Pearl was busy flirting with yet _another_ handsome young man who she would remain enamoured with for the rest of the week before sweetly asking her dear father to rid her of the stalking pest and swearing on her life that she will never fall so swiftly for a boy again. He wondered if Sierra was out browsing the fashionable shopping districts which seemed to change with each and every season; or whether she was in their library, scribbling yet another one of those erotic novels which she published under the pseudonym of Monsieur Dubois that actually reaped quite a high profit; or perhaps she was curled up in their bed, exhausted from their previous night and quick fumble in the parlour only this morning, sweetly covering her pillow with drool.

Lord Hardwicke had risen from his seat, and was now addressing all assembled peers in that confident, educated, reverberating voice that Jack found so incredibly annoying; he was speaking out against the "licentious barbarity" of common-law marriages, how they encouraged immorality and depredation amongst the mob, how such arrangements can be used for particularly unscrupulous fortune-hunters to whisk away innocent heiresses…

In his sleepiness, Jack nearly fell off of his bench, but quickly came to his senses and shook himself free of drowsiness. When he was fully awake, he looked curiously down, as did most of the rabble, to discover that Lord Hardwicke had returned to his seat, and that Baron Harrogate, having shaken off that effeminate façade he reserved only for his personal life, was standing in the place Hardwicke had so recently vacated and was looking upon the noble and privileged with a professional arrogance.

"Lord Hardwicke's vision," he began solemnly in a deep, booming voice, "is indeed great, and noble, and a good number of many other positive adjectives that I shall not list. However, I do believe that, considering how we are on the subject of raising the people's moral standards, we should target and terminate the true serpent that has invaded our Eden; a creature so cunning that it has walked amongst us utterly undetected for centuries; a demon so crafty that it has already claimed many an innocent soul, and yet not one step has been taken to eradicate this most villainous poison."

Jack frowned at this, finding that some of the words were most familiar.

"And I propose that we take the first step to vanquish this evil by immediately granting a piece of legislation of what I pray shall become known as the Quack Act."

Jack actually _did_ fall off of his seat then, and sheepishly picked himself up as several noblemen turned to look at him. The Quack Act. Sierra had mockingly referred to his bill as the Quack Act. He hadn't written the last part that Harrogate had said, but he couldn't help but find it odd that the baron, who _was_ a close friend of his wife, and who had just fumbled through Jack's coat so recently, his hand even moving to where Jack's speech was kept… Well, it was all rather suspicious.

"Now, I do realise that it is a little unorthodox to propose a bill that has not even been presented to the House of Commons, and especially when we are in the middle of another very possibly more pressing act," Harrogate was saying whilst Jack discreetly fumbled in his pockets for a particular sheet of paper. Harrogate's commanding voice faded as Jack quietly pulled out and unfolded the square, only to discover that he had in his possession the original speech that Sierra had been so desperate he take to Westminster instead. Her neat little annotations remained relatively unchanged, although he did notice that, at the very top of the page, Sierra had hastily scribbled the apologetic words: _I'm so sorry, Jack. I promise I'll make it up to you._

For a moment, Jack was so stunned that he'd forgotten all about Harrogate and Hardwicke and the House of Lords.

"You little whore…" he said aloud in disbelief, causing quite a few heads to turn as a result. Noticing suddenly how quite a few eyes were on him, Jack cleared his throat embarrassedly and apologised for his crass and uncalled-for language.

_Harlot,_ he silently fumed. _Wait until I get my hands on her pretty little… Actually no, she might like that; I'll just… No, no, she _definitely _likes that. I think I'll just… Bugger, there's no conventional corporal punishment that she _won't _enjoy…_

And his thoughts continued in this vein for some time whilst the rest of the House of Lords listened to Lord Harrogate recite and successfully butcher Jack's proposed Quack Act in growing disbelief.

"Despicable, sir!" Lord Hardwicke cried after politely waiting for Baron Harrogate to finish. "Absolutely despicable! A mockery of our laws and constitution! We talk of lasciviousness, ravishment, abduction, and you talk of the evils of the common mallard! How _dare_ you!"

Lord Harrogate merely shrugged the insult off. "A man must attempt his best," was all he said, and returned to his seat amidst rumbled murmurings, catching Jack's eye and flashing the handsome lord an apologetic smile as he sat beside Lord Livingstone.

"So very sorry," he whispered as the House erupted into avid discussion. "But Lady Livingstone is a very good friend of mine, and my own political career is secure enough to risk such a travesty."

_A travesty?_ Jack thought in disbelief. _Bastard fairy._

Lord Hardwicke was calling for order and attempting to bring his own Marriage Act back to the collective attention of the House of Lords, with relatively little success; as Sierra had predicted several days ago, Harrogate's political standing was such that he was always guaranteed a number of supporters, no matter what outrageous or ridiculous idea he suggested. In despair, Hardwicke raised his voice and requested, somewhat desperately, that the charismatic Lord Livingstone stand and make his views known. Having heard his name being evoked, Jack had complied, straightening his clothing with an air of nonchalance, and marching down to stand beside the rudely ignored Lord Hardwicke, where he stood silently waiting for the aristocrats became aware of his aloof presence.

"Before I begin," Jack enunciated clearly, his voice effectively filling the magnificent hall, much to his secret pleasure, "I've one question to ask, and I wish it to be known that this query is put forth out of simple curiosity, and nothing more; most certainly not a secret, personal attachment stemming from buried childhood memories and a recent and most humiliating evening in which I duelled with and was uncompromisingly defeated by certain winged members of English wildlife. If Lord Harrogate's proposed Quack Act was put forth in the more conventional manner, and if I had been the man who had proposed such a… a mockery, as my Lord Hardwicke had put it, would you have considered its approval?"

The reaction Jack received was mixed; Harrogate's more sycophantic supporters had cried out that yes, they most certainly would have approved the Quack Act with relatively little hesitation, whilst the more neutral and unbiased of the nobility had flatly scoffed and laughed at such an idea. Feeling more than a little offended, Jack waited patiently for silence once more before unfolding his speech.

"Gentlemen," he said, attempting to keep his voice light and droll as opposed to the tired monotony that he really felt, "as you know fully well, we are here to discuss the Clandestine Marriage Act…"

**TBC**


	5. Sierra's Baby

**The Quack Act**

**Part V:** Sierra's Baby

Paul Everton was a man of suspicion: a Catholic, born and bred, currently masquerading as a cleric of the Church of England, made him rather wary of his congregation as a result. He knew that the majority strictly adhered to the Old Religion, but every now and again he did get some Protestant stragglers wandering in, and when that happened, he had to radically alter his sermon.

This Sunday was one such day, and Paul was consequently rather wary. The service happily concluded and unwilling donations collected, he jumped at the sound of a soft female voice murmuring his name, scattering numerous coins as a result.

"Bloody hell!" he cried, crawling across the floorboards in a clumsy and most undignified manner that made him secretly pleased that his entire flock had left ten minutes earlier.

"Oh, I am sorry," she spoke again, and then he heard the swishing of skirts and tapping of heels that indicated she was moving towards him. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes," he gasped, hand reaching up to rest over his rapidly-beating heart as he straightened, dusting himself off, collection plate balancing precariously in his hand. "You startled me," he told the lady, for that was what she was, dressed in pale silks, a mask covering her face to shield her fair complexion from the wrath of nature, as was the fashion. He peered closely at her for a moment, studying what little of her he could see intently, and she seemed to squirm in discomfort.

"Mr. Everton," she said again, somewhat informally, "it's me!"

"I'm afraid that I—oh! Oh, I see!" he said, grinning toothily at her. "Of course, of course—I didn't recognise you, milady."

Although he was unable to see her face, he sensed that she was smiling at him. Yes, he knew this lady well—he may not know her name, nor had he ever seen her face. but he knew this lady well. For the past four years or so, she had come to him, to "confess"—although every time she did so, it was not a confession, but rather a long and detailed description of what her husband had done the week prior that had upset or frustrated her. He still remembered the first day they had met:

"_He stole the bloody Crown Jewels!" she had exploded the moment they had entered Paul's cunningly-disguised 'confessional.' "The stupid prat!"_

_Paul had flinched, not at the vehement curses themselves, but rather at the fact that the curses, mild though they were, were issuing forth from the aristocrat's lips. It was autumn, and she was fanning herself rather indignantly as she spoke, hand reaching up to adjust the uncomfortably heavy mask._

"_I beg your pardon?" he had asked in shock as her words sunk in._

"_The Crown Jewels!" she repeated, positively beside herself with fury. "He just waltzed into the Tower and bloody took them!" And she had kicked at a wall, causing a terrible splintering noise._

"_Um, excuse me, madam—" he attempted to intervene, for was it not the custom to know the confessor's name, and when she had last confessed?_

_There was, however, no stopping her._

"_He's such a useless, pathetic, thieving—" And she continued to rant in this vein for quite some time, oblivious and uncaring as to Paul's polite attempts at interrupting her. When she was done, he heard her lithe body slump, clearly worn out by her passionate tirade, leaving Paul sitting stunned that one man was able to commit so many thefts without ever being captured. But he supposed that was the protection that the nobility were born to._

"_Ah…" Paul said, clearing his throat as he listened to her breathing heavily. "…When was your last confession?" he asked, for lack of better things to say._

_When she spoke, he heard the smile in her voice. "Four, five years ago…" she told him dreamily. "Although it wasn't really a confession… It was actually how I met my husband; he was in the other part of the confessional, offering me amusingly inaccurate advice and odd suggestions for penance."_

"_I see…" he replied, uncertain of what sort of aristocrat would needlessly pillage, plunder, and loiter in confessionals. "And what were your sins?"_

_She seemed to find this innocuous question offensive. "Nothing!" she snapped, clearly peeved._

"_Then might I ask what you're doing here?"_

"_I'm here to talk, of course."_

"_About your husband's sins?"_

"_Not specifically," she answered, irritated. "I just need someone to talk to—someone I've no acquaintance with, someone who I will never see in my day-to-day life, someone who doesn't know me, someone who is unable to tell the world what I've told him under oath."_

_It appeared to Paul that this last was the main reason for her coming to him rather than friends or family, but he was powerless to stop her in her passions. His patience was rewarded, however, as was his pledge of silence, and so it came to pass that, if ever the lady needed a listening ear, she would come to him, and her visits, though irregular, were not entirely infrequent. He became accustomed to her voice, if not her face, and began to grow rather fond of this grown woman, with her girlish mannerisms and the amusing situations her husband seemed to find himself in._

And it appeared that today's visit was no exception. He led her back to the familiar little room, with its threadbare walls, scratched table and ill-matching furniture—his "confessional." He was able to transform the room into such a thing by the strategic hanging of a large square of linen, a formality that he no longer carried out with the lady—the mask she always wore on her visits to him were as good a barrier as any he could fashion. He knew well why she took such precautions; the things that she told him would reflect terribly on both her and her family should they ever come to light. Not that he dreamed of such a thing as betraying her trust.

She seated herself carefully upon a rickety stool, arranging her skirts about herself, and clasped her fan and parasol tightly in her hands, which were covered in a delicate white netting.

"So tell me, milady," he addressed her, seating himself rather comfortably into an armchair—she had always insisted he take this particular seat. "Exactly what has The Baby done this time?"

'Baby' was the name that the two used when talking of the lady's husband; whether it was an affectionate term of endearment or the lady's personal view of her spouse's behaviour was debatable.

"Well," she said to him, "this is by far the worse of everything that, in all of the years that I've known him, he has _ever_ done to me!"

Paul sat up, alert and concerned; although he had heard of a great many things The Baby had done, not once had he heard of a crime committed against the lady in question; fond of her as he was, Paul couldn't help but feel apprehensive of her next words.

"He—" she began, and stopped, anger and grief waging war within her. Paul waited.

"He won't forgive me!" she burst out in a desperate, strangled cry. "He absolutely _refuses_ to forgive me! After all of the things I've done for him, the years I've spent by his side—"

Paul held up his hands, and she reluctantly fell silent, looking at him in what he assumed was a sullen manner.

"First things first," Paul asked her evenly. "Has he… taken any items that do not in fact belong to him?"

"Well… yes, actually," she admitted, momentarily distracted. "Of course he has; you do realise that the only reason he attends the House of Lords at all is because he always has a plan to loot something of historical and political importance, don't you?"

Paul nodded; yes, she had explained her husband's inclination towards theft to him. Last year, The Baby had brought home a suit of armour belonging to the robust Henry VIII; the year before that, a portrait of the executed Charles I. And every single year, without fail, he would always bring back a crystal chandelier. As such, the lady was now mistress of the best-lit wine cellar in all of Europe. The newspapers always reported such mysterious thefts as the works of a silent phantom, dubbed the "Parliamentarian Poltergeist." But of course, Paul knew otherwise.

"How big was the chandelier?" he asked her politely.

"The biggest one yet—twenty feet in diameter!" the lady exclaimed. "At this rate, the House will have to make do with lanterns and candles!"

"And the other item?" Paul queried, and the lady made a noise of distaste.

"A portrait of Oliver Cromwell," she told him sullenly. "Honestly, I don't how he's able to get all of these items past the guards."

"Your husband is a most talented thief," Paul remarked, and he saw the lady preen, clearly proud of him—or was she proud of herself, for capturing him?

"Yes…" she agreed, hesitating before saying fondly, "Even his imperfections are perfect."

"But you say that he won't forgive you?" Paul quizzed, and saw the lady nodding frantically. "How so? What have you done to upset him so?"

"Oh, nothing, really," the lady waved away with her closed fan. "I saved him from humiliation; he had this absurd idea of passing an act banning duck ponds, duck farms… just _ducks_, in general."

Paul sat up, alert at this. "You stopped him from banning ducks?" he queried in a disbelieving tone. "Why on earth would you do that?"

The lady frowned, bemused. "I beg your pardon?"

"Ducks," Paul began, rising from his seat and pacing the floor, "are a societal evil that must, at all costs, be _destroyed_."

"I _beg_ your pardon?" the lady repeated in disbelief. He rounded on her, examining her critically, and there was something in the man's gaze that made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

"I had a nephew," he told her gently, "many years ago; a brighter, handsomer lad you'll never meet. Ducks ruined his life."

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow…" the lady told him, clearly confused, and Paul sighed.

"He was such a promising boy," he told her forlornly. "A smart youngster; quick-witted, sharp-eyed, and a charming way with words. Such a bright future—and the ducks took that away from him."

The lady placed a hand to her masked lips in horror. "Oh…"

"When he was a very small child, he fell into a duck pond and was left to drown. Thankfully, his mother was able to pull him out. But he was never the same since, I tell you. Before, he could have been anything he wished; a lawyer, an accountant, a banker—_anything_. But after he fell into the pond, everything changed. He dreamt of becoming a pirate—and when he was old enough, he ran off to see as a merchant sailor. But that was only a steppingstone to his dreams of glory as a sea rover. In a few years, he obtained a ship, and changed his name to Jack Sparrow."

The lady, who had been on the edge of her seat with anticipation, let out a gasp as the cleric unwittingly confirmed her suspicions.

"How do you—How do you know your nephew was called that?" she challenged.

"Well, he kept in touch with me, over the years. We were always quite close; he was my favourite out of all of my sister's children—and let me tell you, she had a fair few."

"He wrote to you often?" the lady asked, surprised at this new information.

"That he did—until about four years ago, when I heard that he was killed on some godforsaken plantation by some landed lord. From what I've heard at the docks, they were fighting over some woman. Apparently she was simultaneously married to Jack and engaged to the nobleman."

"Now that's not—" The lady began defensively, and then stopped. "Well, surely that's not fair on the woman," she amended. "Perhaps her first husband should have taken better care of her; perhaps he should have realised that she expected more, particularly since—did they have children?" she asked suddenly.

"I'm not certain. Perhaps."

"Well, assuming that they did—assuming that the woman was expecting a child, perhaps, and required more… funds, and perhaps a—a companion, of a sort, to help her care for the child, is it so surprising that she would have accepted a nobleman's—Do you know the name of the nobleman?" she enquired sharply, and Paul shrugged.

"His name changes with every version of the tale. Cranleigh, from what I heard," and the lady seemed to wilt, sighing in what sounded like relief. Realising that she was feeling particularly overheated, she flicked open her fan, and proceeded to hurriedly fan herself.

"You're welcome to remove your mask, milady," Paul told her gently. "I shan't expose you or The Baby; I'm a man of my word."

The lady shook her head and politely declined.

"Oh, come now," Paul goaded her playfully before adding, "Will you deny me the pleasure of seeing my niece's face?"

The lady froze, her fan fluttering to rest in her lap. Her hands reached up to rest on either side of the black mask as an automatic response to his words, but she stopped, and, looking at him, asked, "How long have you known?"

Paul smiled at her. "I was always suspicion of your husband's true status," he confessed. "But not once did I suspect him of being my nephew—not until you mentioned his phobia of ducks this very morning. Everything came together after that."

"Oh," was all she said, before reaching back to untie the ribbon. The cloth fell away into her hands as she lowered her head, and all he could see was the outline of an elegant nose and dark lashes. Slowly, she raised her head, and he was looking into eyes of the brightest blue he had ever seen. _A beautiful woman,_ he thought appraisingly. Coupling her face with the glimpses of her personality she had revealed, not to mention her adoration for her spouse, Paul could clearly see why Jack was fond of her.

He gave that face an encouraging smile. "He'll forgive you, eventually," he told her confidently. "I know my nephew well, and if he's anything like I think he is, he won't be able to deny you for very long."

"It's already been a week," she told him, disgruntled. "And I've done everything within my power to make him forgive me."

"Have you tried bribing him?"

"Of course!"

"With what?" Paul asked, and his niece hesitated.

"I'd rather not say…"

"You can tell me," he encouraged her, and she looked up at him.

"Numerous sexual favours of varying depravity," she told him evenly.

"What sort?"

"Oh, really!" the lady snapped, picking up her fan once more. There was absolutely no way she was going to tell this religious man that his favourite nephew had bedded both her and a delicate blonde courtesan at once. "This is highly inappropriate—Jack's your _nephew_!"

"He's also a man," Paul reminded her. "And I know how men think."

"Yes, well, I thought I did too," she sighed before standing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Everton, but I really must be taking my leave of you," she told him sorrowfully. "My Baby—Jack would get suspicious if I was away for too long."

Paul gently took her hand, studying the delicate fingers briefly. "What is your name?" he asked her softly, and she smiled.

"I go by the name of Cecily Livingstone," she told him. "But you may call me Sierra."

"Well, Sierra," Paul advised her, patting her palm. "I suggest that you wait for Jack to calm down; no rash ploys or stupid lies, understand?"

Sierra nodded her dark head fervently. "I understand," she promised.

* * *

"Jack, if you don't forgive me by tomorrow morning, I will have turned into a duck," Sierra calmly informed her husband later that evening. 

Jack, God bless him, looked highly unconvinced. "What?"

"I'd have turned into a duck," Sierra repeated. "It's a family curse; if a man or woman is not forgiven for a well-meaning act he or she had committed within seven days by the man or woman that he or she loves, then the man or woman belonging to my family in question will have turned into a duck—and let me remind you that I am a part of my family."

"Really?" Jack asked, so overcome by sceptism that he had forgotten that he wasn't talking to her.

"Yes, really—why did you think I was so desperate, so against your Quack Act from the very beginning? Half of my relatives are ducks!"

"Well, that's their own fault," Jack said, slipping under the bedcovers.

Sierra, determined not to give up, joined him, clinging tightly to his arm, and Jack sighed.

"Why a duck?" he asked in resignation, hoping to catch her out.

"Why not a duck?" she shot back.

"Go to your room," he ordered her, as was his marital right.

"This _is_ my room," she shot back. "You go to yours, if you're so desperate to keep away from me!"

Jack would, but secretly he had no idea where that was, and he didn't like any of their guestrooms.

"Go to sleep," he said instead, and Sierra snorted, clearly finding such an idea preposterous.

"Knowing that my husband, my soul mate, the love of my life, hasn't forgiven me?" she asked in disbelief. "And that tomorrow morning I'd be a bird? Are you mad?"

"It wouldn't surprise if you _do_ turn into a duck," Jack shot back. "With all of your quacking, you're halfway there already."

"I can't help the quacking," Sierra sniffled. "It's in my blood. Besides, my incessant quacking is really _your_ fault."

"_My_ fault?"

"Yes, Jack: There is an animal in every woman, and I'm sorry to say your Quack Act has unleashed the duck in me."

Jack, unwilling to hear anymore of this nonsense, blew out the candle beside him, and rolled onto his side with a pillow in his arms, lest in his sleep he accidentally embrace her.

But Sierra was _still_ unwilling to give up: he heard her sniffle, felt her body move towards him, her hands gripping his shoulders as she turned him over before they came to rest upon both sides of his face as she gave him one last, final kiss.

"I love you, Jack Sparrow," she told him tearfully.

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

When Jack awoke the next morning, he was surprised to find that he was alone: as a rule, Jack always woke first, unless he had been drinking excessively the night before, and he hadn't been drinking excessively the night before. 

But then he realised that he wasn't alone, not really; he was aware of careful, light footsteps, the slight creaking of a closing door and—as though to mock him—a final quack.

Jack sighed in exasperation, unable to believe her obstinacy, before rolling over and falling back into a dreamless half-sleep once more.

Only when he was fully awake, about twenty minutes later, did he notice the single white feather on the pillow beside him. He frowned at this, confused, and gently picked up the snowy object, frowning as he looked down at it. Shaking his head, he sat up, feather still in hand, slipped out of bed, and went in hunt of his clothes, discarding the feather on his desk without another thought to the odd object.

Strolling down the stairs, his dark hair falling about his face, he gave a passing maid a warm greeting that had her dropping her broom and flushing. "N—No, milord," she replied, flustered, when he had enquired as to her mistress' whereabouts. "I've not seen her—she'll still be abed at this hour, won't she?"

"She wasn't there when I woke this morning," Jack commented to her, which made her redden further, and bade her continue on her way.

Beckham served him breakfast, as was his custom, and before Jack could ask, enquired as to whether his mistress wished to break _her_ fast in bed.

"You mean you've not seen her?" Jack asked sharply, and the butler replied that no, he had not.

"Why do you ask, my lord?" he queried politely.

"No particular reason," Jack said, and dismissed him. When the servant was gone, he looked about himself in contemplation, toying with his food. He'd never realised how large the house was before, nor how cold; Sierra's presence lent the grand dwelling a more familial atmosphere. Despite their "distance" over the past seven days, Jack found that he was missing her terribly.

_On the other hand,_ Jack consoled himself, _it is nice to finally have some time alone without her incessant chattering or persistent pestering for money and coition; but most of all, there is absolutely no—_

"_Quack!_"

_She could have at least had the decency to allow me to finish my thoughts,_ Jack thought irritably, leaving his mostly untouched meal and strolling to the door to confront her. He had just stepped over the threshold before leaping back with a curse as a duck waddled pass, wings fluttering in panic.

"Come back!" he heard another voice cry, and within seconds, his own daughter was streaking pass the door, skirts gathered up in her hands as she scurried after the bird. She didn't even notice her father staring at the odd scene in disbelief.

"I'm surrounded by duck enthusiasts," he muttered under his breath, hurrying out of the dining room and towards his study, where his trusty pistol waited. The way he saw it, he'd planned the Quack Act as a way of countering his inability to shoot a particular duck; now that he had the opportunity to right this most heinous of wrongs, he didn't see why he should let it slip through his fingers. This duck in particular was a domesticated one, so it didn't actually resemble the wild mallards that had made his life such living hell, but it was still a duck.

Isabelle was now in the parlour, chasing after the white bird with cries and pleas of desperation issuing from her lips. It appeared to Jack that she was close to tears, which was another reason to blow the bird's brains out, wasn't it?

Pearl spun on her heel, her blue skirts swirling about her legs, and gasped as she saw her father standing in the doorway, calmly cocking a pistol. "Papa—" she began, horrified, even as she moved her slender body in an attempt to block the bird from her father's view.

"Step aside, Pearl," Jack told her calmly, stepping forward and wrapping his arm about her waist to keep her out of range.

"No! Papa, please—"

"You might want to close your eyes and look away," he told her confidently, cocking the firearm and taking aim.

She lost what little rein over her emotions she had left.

"_Don't shoot my Si-Si!_" she shrieked, and her words stilled his hand. Jack was silent, looking at the squawking bird that was bouncing around the room in panic.

"What did you say?" he asked, and Pearl looked fearfully behind her before bursting into tears. "Pearl!" he exclaimed in astonishment as she slumped in his arms; cocking the safety back on his firearm, he allowed the gun to drop to the floor the better to support her.

"…Not my Si-Si…" she was sobbing, burying her face into his shoulder, and Jack was moved by how fragile and childlike she suddenly was. She hadn't used the name Si-Si in nearly ten years; in the days before she rejected the name of Pearl and insisted on being called Isabelle, her reasoning being it was a more fitting name that indicated maturity.

Si-Si, of course being a child's affectionate nickname for Sierra…

"…_If you don't forgive me by tomorrow morning, I will have turned into a duck."_

_Bollocks._

Jack clung tightly to his weeping daughter, rubbing her back and murmuring soothing words of comfort. At length, Pearl finally calmed down, her tears now reduced to the occasional sniffle; eventually, she drew away, wiping at her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. Jack smiled, suggesting she go clean herself up.

"But… But what of my Si-Si?" she stammered.

"I'll take care of Si-Si," he promised her, and she smiled shakily through her tears.

"I think you two should spend some time together," she proposed, still in that childish cadence.

"We will," he swore, and Pearl beamed happily before retreating to her bedroom.

The moment she was gone, Jack straightened, picking up his pistol, and surveyed the duck critically. The bird must have noticed his stare, for she calmed down, and was looking up at him with black eyes. He stayed still, his eyes never leaving the duck's… And slowly, the bird ambled over, never breaking away from his gaze.

He slowly knelt down when she reached him, cautiously reaching out a nervous hand before pulling it back when the duck made a sudden movement. She looked up at him in a sort of hurt before lowering her head in melancholy. Swallowing, Jack slowly reached out again, and refused to pull back until his fingers brushed her head. The duck closed her black eyes at the contact, and it let out a sort of contented squawk. Jack started, but kept his hand on her head, gently stroking her. The bird moved forward once more, and rested her head on his bent knee.

Eventually, he drew away, and the bird released a quack of disapproval, spreading her wings in urgency, unwilling for the tender moment to end.

"So…" Jack said to her as she waddled towards him. "What do you want to do?"

* * *

The house appeared oddly quiet and empty when she returned late in the afternoon, the servants she had brought with her all weighed down with numerous large and weighty packages. St James' Square watched in astonishment at this shameless display of aristocratic decadence as she stepped down from her carriage, dressed in the finest silks and satins, her hair artfully piled upon her head, diamonds glistening at her ears, wrists and neck. 

"You all know where everything goes," she told them friendlily, grinning flirtatiously at the muscular footman that had helped her down. Jack obviously hadn't noticed this man's handsome features, or surely the servant would have been dismissed from his post. She allowed her hand to linger in his for longer than was appropriate until he looked up at his mistress—a breach of etiquette that would surely have been sufficient grounds for dismissal had it been with any other member of the peerage. She allowed him to look into her eyes, smiling suggestively—

"Lady Livingstone," a voice spoke, and the moment was shattered; irritated, she looked around, only to spot Beckham at the door, looking at her with polite disapproval.

_It's not my fault,_ she thought irritably as she dropped her hand from the footman's. _Jack hasn't touched me in seven days._

"Don't tell my husband," she snapped as she brushed pass him.

"I wouldn't dream of it, my lady," he answered her, though this was a lie: he had long ago pledged to Lord Livingstone to report even the slightest flirtation his coquettish wife indulged in.

"Where is my lord?" she queried as she carefully removed her bonnet and handed it to a waiting maid.

"In the library, my lady," he answered, and she frowned. The library was principally _her_ domain.

"And what of my daughter?"

"Miss Isabelle is currently standing outside of the library with her ear pressed to the door, giggling incessantly," the butler answered, causing her frown to deepen.

"Thank you, Beckham," she dismissed. "See to it that at least _one_ of these barrels is placed in our room, won't you?" She waved at a point behind her, and he nodded. The Livingstones were a family full of strange little quirks; a tapped barrel of rum in the master bedroom was one of them.

Sierra carefully traced the familiar path to the library, and soon spotted Pearl, slumped on the floor, legs drawn up to her chest, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

"Hello, darling," she greeted, bending down to kiss the girl's cheek. "What have you done to your father?"

Pearl flung her arms about the woman's neck, burying her face in the lady's shoulder to smother her mirth.

"Nothing," she wheezed out between fits of laughter. "He thinks… He…" And she started to cackle.

Sierra placed a finger to the girl's lips. "Shh…" she instructed, craning her neck the better to listen. Unable to hear anything of particular interest, she drew away from the girl, moving towards the door and carefully placed her ear to it. Quietly, she reached down to the handle, and pried the door slowly open.

What the—

Sierra gaped in disbelief at the sight of her husband sitting at a desk, several papers scattered before him, a duck in the centre of the table, a ring of small squares encircling the bird, quill held in one hand whilst he massaged his head with the other.

"Why would anyone _pay_ for any of this?" he asked of the bird as he looked over one parchment critically. "'Slow down, Roland, or reticent unicorns will countermand my trousers,'" he read aloud. "I think you've used 'countermand' in the wrong context, love," and Sierra's jaw dropped as she realised he was addressing the duck. "Come to think of it," he continued, still looking at the duck and so unaware of Sierra standing in the doorway gaping at them, "Have you any under what 'countermand' means?"

The duck merely quacked, flapping its white wings, offended that Jack would think so little of its knowledge of the English language, and the man sighed. "Yes, I suppose you do…"

Sierra decided that her dear husband had humiliated himself enough for one day.

"Well," she said, stepping forward and causing Jack to start at the sound of her voice, "I suppose it depends which context you use it in, but the general gist is to recall or overrule a previous command of a sort."

Jack merely gaped at her, looking from the woman standing at the door to the duck on the table and back again. Which one was his wife?

The woman moved lazily forward, her skirts brushing against his leg as she stood beside him, carefully plucking the parchment from his slack grip. Her blue eyes scanned the words her husband had written in her absence, and suppressed a giggle at what she saw.

"Who wrote all this?" she asked her husband, who was still staring up at her.

"You did," he replied. "Well… She did," and he gestured at the duck. Frowning, Sierra peered at the bird, who was preening her feathers, and then at the squares around it, noting that upon each square was a letter printed in her husband's careful scrawl.

Her eyes returned to her husband. "What are you doing?"

Jack shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm—We're… writing…" he said meekly.

"Writing what?"

Jack glanced uneasily at the duck, who merely quacked and hopped onto a vacant chair, determined to stay out of this domestic.

"We were finishing…" he began, then stopped.

"Go on," Sierra encouraged, and he swallowed before continuing.

"We were finishing your novel," he said quickly.

She was touched. "Let me see if I've got this straight," she said slowly. "You have, for strange and inexplicable reasons, reached the conclusion that I have morphed into a duck, yes?"

"Can't fault you so far," Jack confessed.

"And upon reaching this conclusion, your first course of action was to…?"

"Well…" Jack said, straightening in the chair. "Obviously, I went through all of the options that I could that might reverse this… unusual course of events; witches, wise women, magicians…"

"Quacks?" Sierra added, unable to keep the mischief out of her voice. Jack merely glared at her.

"Aye, those too. But then I thought to myself, 'I can't risk taking my feathered wife out into the marketplace with no idea which option will be effective; it'll put her at too much risk.' So my second recourse was to create an ideal environment for my spouse."

"An ideal environment?" she quizzed.

"By that, I mean a heavily padded guestroom and a full bathtub," Jack confessed, feeling more and more embarrassed.

"Why heavily padded?"

Jack looked down; he was not one to blush, but the man could not deny the heat rushing to his cheeks. "Because my wife might accidentally cause herself irreparable harm in her disoriented state."

Sierra was taken aback by this, and her eyes softened with affection.

"And then I thought to myself, 'Well, whilst the help are preparing such an environment, I should keep my wife occupied.' Now, you know full well how I would normally… _occupy_ you," and Sierra's mouth opened at the barefaced innuendo, "but in your current birdlike state, such activities would be unethical, damaging, and disturbing. So then I asked myself, 'What does my wife enjoy doing in her spare time?'"

"And it was then that you remembered that I've a penchant for writing about fictional people occupying each another," Sierra filled in, and Jack nodded, awaiting a rebuke.

Instead, Sierra glanced back down at the parchment. "'Steady now, Rupert, the banana's narcoleptic,'" she spoke in disbelief. "Who's Rupert?"

"I don't know," Jack said, pointing at the bird. "The duck told me to write it."

Sierra smiled and reached over to pat its head. "I ordered this duck this morning," she told him. "I wanted the cook to whip up duck _a l'orange_ this evening, to see if eating a duck might ritualistically purge you of your hatred, but it appears that the belief of your wife becoming one is an effective enough remedy."

"Pearl is very fond of it," Jack informed her. "She was crying when I was about to shoot it."

"You were going to shoot me?" Sierra cried, alarmed.

"No, I was going to shoot it before I realised that it was you, at which point I relinquished all firearms," Jack hurried to assure her.

Sierra gave him a slow, enigmatic smile, and gently scooped the bird up in her arms, turning on her heel and trotting towards the door, where Pearl waited. "Here you go," she said to the teenager, depositing the bird in her arms with an indignant quack. "Now take your new friend and stay away from here for the next three hours or so, alright? And tell the cook that she is permitted to serve some other meal this evening. We'll keep the duck as a sort of family pet."

"Really?" Pearl asked; for, despite her pretensions, she _was_ still a child inside.

Sierra smiled indulgently at her. "But of course; why, your brother might like it," she added, referring to the infant she had left in the care of his paternal grandmother in the country, fearing that London would damage the young child's constitution.

"Will we be going to Woodmansterne soon?"

Sierra laughed at this. "Of course we will. I miss my son terribly, and I know you do too. Now go."

Pearl beamed and turned away, before hesitantly adding over her shoulder, "I named her after you, you know."

"I know," she smiled, and then the girl was gone.

Lady Livingstone then returned to the library, retrieving a key and locking the doors before rounding upon her husband with a mischievous grin.

"Do you love me?" she asked as she moved carelessly towards him.

"Perhaps," he answered.

"Do you forgive me?"

"I might do just that…" Jack said to her as she wrapped her arms about him, kissing his neck affectionately. "Depending upon the next three hours…"

Sierra smiled happily, pleased that they were at long last reconciled.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she asked him as she drew away, leaning against the desk. At Jack's quirked eyebrow, the lady hopped onto the table and, tossing her head back, said commandingly, "Occupy me."

And he did just that, and gladly so.

**THE END**

**AN:** Sorry it took so long to post this last instalment, but I'm sure you'll forgive me when I explain why: I've an idea for a sequel. It took me ages to get the first part written and edited to my satisfaction, but at long last it's at an upload-able standard. It's called , and despite the title, doesn't actually have a thing to do with ducks, so please go check it out.


End file.
